


I Want Us To Meet Again (when we are older and kinder)

by lapsus_calami



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Series, Vet!Scott, cop!Stiles, implied sterek, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 00:08:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6215740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years later Stiles is on routine patrol when he pulls over a black Porsche for speeding, and the driver is the last person he expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Want Us To Meet Again (when we are older and kinder)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://prettiestcaptain.tumblr.com/post/140738691834/imagine-the-very-last-episode-though-its-like-a) post on tumblr. 
> 
> Title from a quote I've seen in a few different places lately, though I have no idea where it originates from. It's currently my favorite quote pertaining to Sterek at the moment.

**I Want Us To Meet Again (when we are older and kinder)**

Over the years his life has fallen into a kind of monotony. It’s a nice kind of monotony though, not the boring kind that claims the lives of people who work a nine to five office job in the same cubical day after day after day. It's a monotony of familiarity that Stiles finds consistently comforting.

And it’s that comforting familiar monotony that lets him know that at one-thirty every Thursday Stiles will be sitting alongside a road—it’s a random rotating schedule of what road he’s watching each week so not entirely predictable—and Scott will call him from Davis and they’ll spend Scott’s lunch hour talking about their respective Monday through Thursday. On Sundays Stiles calls Scott before his night class—Intro to Juvenile Justice and Delinquency—and they do the same thing only talking about their Thursdays through Sundays instead.

He has similar schedules for talking to the others, although some are weekly calls rather than twice weekly, and, whatever his reservations about graduating high school years before, he’s okay with the geographic distance between most of them now.

“A litter of puppies?” Stiles repeats reigning his attention back to the present as Scott chatters in his ear and a red minivan approaches around the turn. Comically, and predictably, the van slows abruptly once they spot his cruiser alongside the road and passes by at well below the speed limit. Stiles rolls his eyes giving the minivan a cursory once over as it literally seems to inch by noting that the driver, a middle-aged brunette woman, is not wearing her seatbelt and wincing at the three kids in the back along with a dog that appear to be fighting. Stiles swears the screams of slighted children not getting what they want are almost audible to him as they drive by. Even if the woman had been speeding Stiles is sure he would have given her a pass on a ticket out of simple pity.

“Yes, dude, puppies. Six of them,” Scott says positively glowing through the phone with satisfaction and what is probably the remnants of the adorability high he’d been on at the time. “It was amazing, and they were _so_ adorable. All little and snuffling around.”

“Newborn puppies are not adorable,” Stiles says grinning as he pictures Scott’s affronted expression. He knows Scott’s love for puppies, and all things life really, stems from the darkness around his heart that's similar to the darkness that feeds Stiles’ love for his work with the community. After everything they’ve gone through, appreciation for the things that make life _life_ is a necessary and beautiful thing. “Three day old puppies are adorable, couple weeks old puppies even more so, once they get really fluffy there’s no limitations on their adorableness, but just born puppies are not.”

“You're clearly wrong. You just don’t like newborn puppies because you think they’re slimy and gross,” Scott counters and Stiles chuckles adjusting his position so his elbow rests more comfortably against the door as Scott’s answering laugh echoes through his cellphone’s tinny speakers.

“You will never convince me they aren’t though,” Stiles argues and Scott huffs on the other end of the line starting in on a new story from Monday. Stiles is giving Scott his full attention, or as full attention as he can give while simultaneously keeping an eye on the cars that pass by. Given his affinity for multitasking, Scott’s still getting a significant portion. At least until a black muscle car zooms by.

“Oh my god!” Stiles yells personally offended on behalf of the law because they are in a _forty-five_ zone (while simultaneously ignoring the many, many times he’s sped along these very roads himself) and he’s vaguely aware of Scott sputtering on the other end of the line, cutting off his story about the little dog that had been so matted it took Scott and the others hours to comb the poor thing out. Stiles isn’t paying any attention at all anymore and at one point in their friendship—a long, long, long time ago—he might have felt guilty about that but Scott knows what to expect by now.

And the black car that just zipped by has claimed all his attention. Well, not _all_ of it. Stiles still has the sense of mind to shout, “Hold that thought, Scotty!” into his phone before tossing it into the passenger seat atop his coat and peeling out onto the road himself in pursuit determinedly growling, "Not on my watch, asshole." 

It’s basic physics that to catch up to the asshole in the black sports car Stiles has to accelerate fast and hard. Soon enough he’s zipping down the road at an impressively inadvisable speed himself, but he doesn’t mind. In fact he finds it extraordinarily thrilling, a sense of freedom that comes with the adrenaline coursing through his veins and the beating of his heart in his chest.

So he lets out a whoop, uncaring and unaware of the call still connected in his passenger seat or the laughing werewolf on the other end who can just barely hear the roar of the cruiser’s engine and Stiles’ calls for justice as he flicks on the siren.

Stiles expects to have to give a good chase. Anyone would from a sleek, black sports car—which is a Porsche if Stiles isn’t mistaken, and he rarely is—like the one he’s currently tailing, but whoever is driving the Porsche actually slows once Stiles turns on his siren. Cherry and blue lights flash in the polished body of the car as they rapidly slow, and the Porsche pulls off along the shoulder, tires bumping over gravel and engine purring audibly even as Stiles knocks his cruiser into park and steps out.

He rakes his gaze over the sports car taking in the glossy paint job and shining chrome hubcaps. Driver came from money without a question. That or they had stolen the car in the first place; he doubts that given the fact that they pulled over so readily. The car reminds him of Jackson, and Stiles prepares himself to face someone of equal levels of distain and douchebaggery as he approaches the driver’s side door rambling off quickly but authoritatively the by now well-practiced line.

“Good afternoon, license and regis—” he tapers off staring slack-jawed at the man in the car because he thinks for a moment he might actually be hallucinating and just barely manages to finish his sentence, “—tration, sir.”

“Hi,” Derek says and Stiles blinks, shaking his head a bit to convince himself that, yes, this is real, and, no, he isn’t dreaming. Derek Hale is sitting in the Porsche he just pulled over. 

“Derek,” he says the name long foreign on his tongue and yet still somehow familiar and falling easy from his mouth. He means to say more, he does, really, but for some reason that’s the only word he seems capable of saying at the moment.

Derek grins—Stiles resolutely ignores what the sight of it does to his stomach which is flip-flopping all over itself and seemingly full of butterflies as much as he hates the mental picture that thought puts in his mind—and slides his sunglasses down his nose slightly, just enough to peer at Stiles with piercing hazel eyes as he returns, “Stiles. Long time no see.”

A fond smile spreads across Stiles’ face and he can’t help but shake his head. “Six years and that lame line is the first thing you say to me?” he says. “I’m disappointed, sourwolf.”

Derek holds his gaze for a moment, shrugs like he doesn’t have a care in the world, then, startlingly, begins to laugh. It’s light, airy, and it pulls an answering laugh from Stiles that’s almost as freeing as pushing the speed of the cruiser as far as he dares on some of the longer and deserted straight stretches just to feel the wind in his hair and the thrum of power beneath his hands.

There’s a twinkle in Derek’s eyes, a hint of mischief and recklessness that strikes a similar chord in Stiles. And it summons up a plethora of feelings long since left behind from the days before. Before the end of the horrors, before the beginning of who he is now. It sobers him, not in a bad way, but in a way that draws the world back into focus, draws the present back to him, and Stiles lets the expression of seriousness settle over him with practiced ease.

He plasters on a mock frown, arches a solemn eyebrow at the flicker of uncertainty from Derek, and says in his best Officer Voice that he can muster, “I’m still giving you a ticket, you jackass.”

* * *

Scott drains his coffee glancing at his watch. He’ll need to be heading back to work soon but he can’t bring himself to hang up on Stiles even if he’s just been listening to silence for the past few minutes. It’s not the first time, and certainly won’t be the last time, Stiles has pulled someone over while on the phone with Scott and every time he lets Scott sit on hold until he’s done. By now Scott's used to waiting, listening to the muffled sounds as Stiles leaves, returns to run the name and license number of whoever he pulled over, then leaves again.

Something about how the phone must have landed—Scott can picture it nestled in amongst the coat he knows Stiles isn’t wearing today because he remarked on how warm it is or pressed up against the seat in just the wrong way—means that Scott can’t hear anything very clearly. The most he catches as Stiles runs the driver’s information is a few disjointed syllables, but he’s not listening closely anyway. Then the door creaks again and there’s nothing but silence as Scott waits.

And waits.

It’s by far the longest Scott’s ever waited and an uncomfortable inkling of dread is beginning to settle low in his stomach. He doesn’t think he could just hang up and head back to work now. He’s warring between staying on the line even though he’s starting to run late—if he doesn’t leave right now he will definitely be late—and hanging up to call the Sheriff when he hears the cruiser’s door open again and breathes out a sigh of relief he hadn’t realized he was holding in. He listens to Stiles settle, the muffled sound of fabric sliding across the upholstery of the seats, the distant thud and grunt of discomfort as Stiles obviously shuts his foot in the door somehow before managing to pull it closed correctly.

Then it’s silence again, and Scott blinks trying to tune out the coffee shop noises around him and focus just on Stiles who is a distressing amount of distance away right at this very moment. “Stiles?” he says. “Stiles, you okay? Pick up the phone, man.”

There’s another small rustle, a slight scratch as Stiles picks up the phone, and then he’s breathing into it, speaking with a tone of washed out wonderment that would have Scott even more worried if it weren’t for the obvious hint of joy in the words.

“Scotty. Scotty, you won’t believe who I just ticketed.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com)


End file.
